


Seeking Spring

by Dustbunnygirl



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-01
Updated: 2007-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-14 09:43:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8008591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dustbunnygirl/pseuds/Dustbunnygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title: Seeking Spring<br/>Prompt: Star Gazing, part of the “Mith double-dog-dared me to write 10 cuddle-prompts and 10 passion-prompts by Dec. 31st and I was scatterbrained enough to agree” challenge, otherwise known, for the sake of efficient tags, as “the 10s”.<br/>Fandom: n/a<br/>Pairing: Dahlia Thorn/Reggie the (unfortunate) ferret<br/>Rating: So G it’s frickin’ pathetic<br/>Word count: 865<br/>Warnings: No, this has nothing whatsoever to do with bestiality, even if one of the characters being written about here is, at the moment, a ferret. Those of you who read “The Not-So-Sordid Tale of Reginald the Unfortunate” (wherein I channeled Douglas Adams, badly) already know that furry little Reggie’s not at all what he seems. No angry comments or links to PETA, please.<br/>Disclaimer: These characters are entirely owned by moi and come from my still untitled, unpublished, mostly second drafted Monster Book of the Unholy. The only person to blame for them is, unfortunately, me. However, blame legal_padawan for the fact this was written at all, as she twisted my arm into this challenge of hers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seeking Spring

It didn’t matter how improbable her father always said it was, Dahlia Thorn still swore she could smell spring coming. For days before there was even the first hint of thaw, before the bravest early-returning robin dared to come north, the redheaded half-fae could smell the promise of green things and warmth lingering under the stubborn chill. When everyone else was still wearing their heavy winter coats Dahlia was unearthing her spring wardrobe from the bottom of her closet. 

“Flowers and seeds know when to spring back up through the earth,” she told her father once, “why shouldn’t I?” Her father only shook his head. 

That was why, despite the fact she could still see little puffs every time she exhaled and the people on the street below still scurried about in thick coats and slush-covered boots, Dahlia sat cross legged on the fire escape in her t-shirt and ripped jeans, sniffing the air. It was faint, that tingle of newness hidden deep in the cold Kansas wind that blew across her face, but it was there. 

“You know she’s going to threaten to lock you out here, leaving the window open like this,” a voice said behind her, male and lightly accented. Dahlia opened her eyes just to roll them.

“Ev’s locked up in her room playing Nancy Drew. She wouldn’t notice a bomb going off in the living room right now.” Using two fingers, she tapped her left shoulder. “C’mon out. S’not as cold as it looks.”

“Not on a dare.”

“Awww, for me?”

“I might have a fur coat,” the voice said, “but it doesn’t mean I’m incapable of catching my death of cold.” 

“Reggie…” Dahlia turned, the corners of her lips drooped in a truly pathetic pout. The black and gray ferret standing on the top of the radiator cover stared at her, unblinking, and Dahlia was sure if he could have rolled his eyes at that point, he would have. “Please? Just for a little while? I promise we’ll go inside before you catch ferretmonia.”

“Fine,” Reggie said, with the smallest ferret snort at the end. “But if either of us is dead by morning I take no responsibility.” Dahlia sat perfectly still as Reggie leapt over the windowsill and settled himself around her neck, his tail dangling over her right shoulder, his head doing the same over her left. As his tiny pink nose poked out from behind the wind-blown curtain of her bright red hair she reached up and softly scratched the top of his head. Now that the warm weight of her living, breathing scarf had wrapped around her neck, she realized how cold the rest of her was by comparison. But she suppressed the desire to shiver and grinned instead.

“See? Not so bad at all, you big baby.”

“Says the girl who dyes her hair the color of Kool-aid,” the ferret huffed, his tail twitching against her neck. “Forgive me if I question your rationality from time to time. It’s just all the evidence to the contrary that exists.”

Dahlia tugged the end of his tail then wagged a finger in front of his face. “Watch it, fuzzball, or I’ll dye you pink for Easter.”

“Again, you mean?”

“Green?”

“How very St. Patrick’s Day, 1998.”

“Blue?”

“KU vs. K-State football game, last year.”

“Orange?”

“Halloween, 1989.” Reggie’s tail twitched lazily, swinging back and forth against her shoulder as he burrowed into the shelter of her hair, his face tucked into the side of her neck. “You were grounded for a week. I looked like a pumpkin cross-breeding experiment gone wrong for a month.”

“Oh yeah. Huh.” Dahlia grew quiet then and turned her attention upward. The clouds had moved on hours ago, leaving the sky deep and dark and clear. The moon was a tiny sliver of silver hanging overhead, like a rip in the ceiling of the world, and every star that winked in the atmosphere was just another pinprick hole letting in an unknown light. 

“See that? That constellation right there?” she asked, pointing to a grouping of stars overhead and to the left. “That’s Hildegarde’s Bottom.”

“I don’t think that’s what they call it,” came a murmur from her shoulder, muffled by the crook of her neck. 

This time Dahlia huffed. “What do they call it then?” she asked, crossing her bare forearms across her middle out of a need to hold in what warmth she had as much as a show of pique. 

“Don’t have the foggiest idea,” Reggie said, “but I’m sure nobody named a bunch of stars after someone’s rear end.”

“If they can name some after some old Greek’s belt, how come they can’t name them after someone else’s butt?”

“Don’t have the foggiest idea,” he said again, this time lifting his head to grab hold of a tiny hoop dangling from her ear, giving it a tug. “Let’s go inside and call NASA and decry the cultural bias of naming everything after old dead Greeks. I’ll even squeak in righteous indignation.”

“That’s it,” she said as she uncurled from her spot on the cold metal and climbed back through the apartment window. “You’re sleeping with the dustbunnies tonight.”


End file.
